Jane never heard the phone.
Worn and reeking, she staggered down the streets, two worlds mingling in her vision. A single thought pounded in her mind: to reach the Foundation's office and begin her work. She walked past puddles of primordial slime, past rudimentary life that grew in pale fleshy clusters in the gates of ancient temples. Billions lived in the city, and they'd soon rise.
You're onto something big. Picasso could have only dreamed of revolutionizing art this way.
Her work hailed as the voice of a generation manifested on canvas, the freedom to do as she wished, following the purity of vision. Great things awaited, for her, Trent, Daria—she just needed to finish it.
Corpse pits yawned in the noxious air, contents green and stinking.
The stars are almost right.
Only the weakness of flesh slowed her. Lungs struggled to process the nearly viscous air, the clammy pressure hindering even the slightest movement. Still she persisted, the glorious pattern clearer with each step.
She sometimes lost her lucidity. The living citadels shrank back into dead brick and mortar, the sun suddenly bright and the air clear. She'd sit down on the curb during such episodes, cradling the box that held her paints and brushes as she waited for them to pass.
Jane followed the vague memory of city streets, the path clearer to her when seen through the City. A kind of sixth sense, an overlay of the dream world, told her when to stop and when to move. Even dreams can hurt, she reminded herself as she momentarily heard cars speeding past her. They can hurt others too—you still need to a see a doctor. After what almost happened with Daria…
Ancient sounds choked through the slime, ponderous forms shifting in lightless caverns.
Jane didn't really see the drab two-story office hosting the Foundation for the Promotion of Local Talent, but she knew she'd arrived all the same. Where else would she find the scaled gatekeepers, their immortal heads crowned with pallid gold?
Almost there.
Mountains tall, the great feelers unfurled, the first nerves twitching back to life.
Pick up, pick up, pick up!
"Hey." Trent answered.
"Trent! Has Jane called you?"
"Daria? Uh, no, she hasn't. What's the matter?" His lackadaisical tone vanished.
"She didn't call you earlier this week? What about just now?"
"Slow down! I haven't gotten any calls from her. Is she okay?"
"Um, probably. I think. I don't know. She started sleepwalking," Daria said, trying to calm down even though every fiber of her being wanted to scream. "I went to your house on Saturday, and spent the night. While asleep, Jane sleepwalked out onto the roof."
"On the roof?" For the first time in her life, Daria heard real panic in Trent's voice.
"She didn't fall. I went up—there was some, uh, confusion—but she was okay. The next morning, I told her to call you so that you could make plans to see a doctor. She never called you?"
"No, she didn't. Where are you now?"
"At my house. She's not picking up, I called three times. I'll go over and check on her. I should never have let her alone."
"Good idea."
"There's more. I think. I don't know. How soon can you be back?"
"I'll start heading home now. You can go ahead and check, stay with her until I get there. It'll be okay."
Daria didn't even say goodbye, disconnecting and immediately grabbing the keys to the family SUV. She practically sprinted to the driver's seat. Leaping inside, she gunned the engine and gave only a quick glance in the rearview mirror.
Careful, Daria; last time you drove like this you went off the road, and Jane had to escort you back after listening to your sob story.
Daria alone in the diner, rain drumming on the roof and feeling the tears behind her eyes, Jane arriving in all that, for her.
I can't let anything happen to her.
Pat Mayhew guided Jane towards the sanctum.
"I envy you, Jane," he said, his tongue freed from the encumbrance of human speech. "Yours is a unique honor."
Jane followed, content to listen. Ancient chants shook the air and interlaced with his croaking voice.
"When the stars are right He will rise, but there is no need to wait. I do not think you will ever truly see Him—that blessing belongs to others—but his herald should be reward enough.
"Already we can call them up from R'lyeh, but their forms cannot long manifest so far from Him. Now, however, He has granted you the vision to change the geometries of this world—perfect for an artist, yes? The first herald shall rise here, bringing truth to the tottering cities of man. From this first, multitudes will follow, until the world is made ready."
Her hands itched to start, the pattern glaring in her vision.
"The summoning ritual has already begun. Given what He is telling you, I do not imagine it will take you long to finish your part."
"I'll be done before you know it," she mumbled. Green walls disintegrated, dissolved, leaving only the twisting pattern gleaming before her.
"We have endured many trials. Since the raid, we have had to proceed with caution, stopping our work at even the first sign of interference. That we have invested so much in you is a show of our faith."
Seeing only the pattern, Jane felt the cold and scaly hand guide her down a flight of stairs. The vision dimmed enough to let her see her surroundings, a bare cellar ten feet on each side and lit by pale phosphorescent growths. A great circular stone interrupted the far wall's uneven masonry, and she knew that to be her canvas.
Her materials hung splayed and ruined from hooks. A small remnant of her shrank back from the sight, the bodies familiar as if from a dream. Rivulets of blood dripped from great rents and collected in copper bowls.
"We have invested in the blood of others, and the blood of others can lead to our own. As you see, your competitors have been honored with participation in the final ritual. I trust you will not disappoint."
"No, I wouldn't want that."
"You may start when ready."
Jane put her box on the ground, and opened it up. Her hands took the right tools on instinct. Understanding that there'd be no need for her usual palette, she dipped her finest brush into the gore.